


For every pot, a lid

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fuckbuddies, M/M, Pining After Third Parties, Pity Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-18
Updated: 2009-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misery loves company of the bitter, foul-mouthed kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For every pot, a lid

He picks up the key from the reception desk under a ridiculous pseudonym —and chosen by England himself, no less— one all too fake to elicit at least a raised eyebrow from the hotel's staff. However, no one blinks when he announces himself as Mr R. Crusoe, and that is either proof that the Brits are too uptight to show an ounce of emotion such as surprise, or that people nowadays are too stupid not to be familiar with a name that even himself, not as fond of literature as West is, can easily remember.

Even if there's a chance that the staff has been trained to be the model of discretion, he feels inclined to believe the latter. So, after adjusting his jacket and spinning on his heel to face the stairs, he's quick to label all of them as idiots, if only because it's a given that a world where he's no longer a country must be full of them.

The room is wide, brims with natural light coming through the tall windows, and could also be described as a tad on the luxurious side, which makes him wonder just what was England thinking. A place like this would attract more curious eyes than a second-rate, grim little room in the middle of nowhere, not that they hadn't already gone at it in such a place before. In the end, it doesn't matter. He can complain later when Mr Eyebrows gets there, if he does at all.

Prussia hasn't been stood up until now, but there's always a first time, and he has had many disappointments in his long, long life not to expect another. Not that it would be a disappointment if England weren't to appear; he's not that important. Prussia groans and jumps on the bed as if he were a child. Which, mind you, he's not, even if some people whose name he won't repeat say he behaves like one. The nerve.

He's almost dozing off when England arrives, at the exact time he said he would. Still, Prussia yells that he's been waiting for too long already. England smirks, and Prussia could say he has added insult to injury, sprinkled with a _Don't you dare to give me that I-didn't-do-anything look, you poor excuse of an ally, country-abolishing bastard and insensitive-to-legitimate-uprisings prick_. All of which is true, but there's no point in telling England things he must know already, is there?

Another thing that Prussia keeps to himself is that England is a twisted sort of twin soul, considering all the points in common between them. He also doesn't say that England is, for bad or for worse, a part of his life. The bastard might not even be his fourth option —beggars can't be choosers— but at least he's someone whose time Prussia doesn't have to buy.

"The usual?"

Prussia nods. They never talk before at least a bottle of booze has been opened, contents preferably poured on the glasses instead of spilled on the floor, he comments as England fails to uncork it properly.

"You're hopeless."

That the sentence could fit them both is something Prussia knows and England seems to be aware of too, for he replies with "Don't even get me started."

They begin their pity party with complaints galore; ungrateful little brothers seem to act the same here, there and everywhere. Except that not really, because West is irritating only because he carries perfection to an extreme, and England's boy is insufferable because his flaws are too many to count, yet England knows them all by heart.

He thinks it's pitiful that England is so madly in love with such a brat, and when Prussia says so out loud, England sputters and denies it, even if whatever counterargument he can think of will fall on deaf ears.

"At least I matter."

He's pretty sure that's supposed to end with _and you don't_ , but England doesn't open his mouth again and Prussia doesn't have to say that's bullshit because West cares for him, even if it's just out of guilt and a sense of duty, as he has suspected sometimes.

"Stop brooding and do your fucking thing already."

"Bloody pleased to comply."

What follows is a struggle to remove each other's clothes as fast as possible, using whatever means such as teeth, when their fingers fumble with the buttons for too long.

"Fuck, are you going to sew that back, embroidery boy?"

"Do it yourself, wanker."

England's teeth scrape his neck before he leaves Prussia's side to draw the curtains, blocking the light. "The hell? I swear you choose the worst moments to get all prude on me."

England doesn't tell him to shut up, he just grabs his cheeks and sets them apart nonchalantly as if it were part of a routine: one finger, two... Blunt ones at that, and quite different from the long, almost delicate fingers of that aristocratic pansy. But Prussia can pretend. Or he could, if being delusional made him any good.

The thought is dispelled when England leans forward and locks his mouth on Prussia's.

To be honest, he likes England's way of kissing, more than a little rough and just as bitter. It doesn't make him miss the spice of Hungarian food —and its taste all over her— any less, however. It could very well be that the distance makes the heart grow fonder, but he remembers that kiss like a delightful thing in more ways than one, even if it was stolen and promptly followed by a frying pan hitting him square in the head.

They move until the smaller man fits well inside him, and when he looks above he longs to see the blue of Berlin's summer sky, but there's only green dark with lust, so it will have to do. Years of being East Germany taught him, if not exactly to be a conformist, to accept what was there to take without unnecessary drama.

"Prussia," England says after they're done with the deed, "stop clawing your nails on my back."

Plus, at least England knows when to bite his tongue so as to not call the wrong name, which his pride —battered, but still kicking— appreciates.

"As soon as you pull that flaccid thing out of my ass", he says with a smile he deems charming.

England stands up to pour a drink for himself until the liquid comes close to the rim, cursing at the foreseeable overflowing when he adds a couple of ice cubes. In turn, Prussia lights a cigarette and allows the warmth to fill his lungs, not knowing how long their partners-in-misery act is supposed to last. He thinks it's fine, no matter the outcome, so he lets the ashes fall over the sheets and holds the imaginary glass that the selfish bastard didn't bother to hand him. Nonetheless...

"Cheers," he says, "to many fucks more."


End file.
